Home Sweet Home
by RoseLight
Summary: Good intentions meet Bad misunderstandings, creating a merry mix of linens and lust.


Home Sweet Home

Napoleon Solo appreciated quality and the creature comforts. After all, one could easily rationalize that his profession was dangerous and often uncomfortable. If he choose to indulge in American affluence, he could justify his lifestyle.

However, to his Russian partner's perspective, Solo swam in an extravagant sea. Kuryakin was by nature and political persuasion not very interested in the accumulation of material goods. He had a zesty enthusiasm for a stout vodka, Egyptian cotton sheets, veal marsala, but not enough to carve such luxuries out of his own budget. "I enjoy beautiful things," he protested to his partner. "I just don't have to own them."

Solo admitted that his friend rarely entertained and had no one to suit but himself. And that neither of them spent much time within their own walls. Still, he remained unconvinced that anyone could be happily ensconced in Early Siberian

Solo had visited his partner's Village flat upon occasion, but preferred to hold meetings in his plush East side apartment; he found Kuryakin's corner a dreary, cluttered cave in comparison.

It was coming up to the Russian's second anniversary in the States and Solo wanted to do something to show Illya that he was welcome in this new world, that he belonged in his new work. "I used to think he just hadn't had time to settle in; then I realized, he had nothing to settle. Illya's always been the stranger in a strange land. He's been yanked all over the globe, had to be ready to leave everything and flee at a moment's notice. Never had the opportunity to nest, create his own space."

That's when Solo's date—Stella?...Sheila?- suggested the perfect project. She had this friend….

# # # # # # #

Kuryakin was not expecting the knock at his door. His was a fourth-floor walk up which tended to discourage the casual and the curious from unexpected visits. He squinted at her through the mail slot and had confidence that he could handle this frontal assault on his doorstep and his privacy.

"Yes…?" he cracked the door and cocked his head in her direction. "May I help you?"

"It's what I can do for you, Mr Kuryakin," she cooed and breezed her way inside. He was reminded of the women the Impressionists painted—floating and full of light, shimmering. Her stiff business attire was incongruous. She sauntered to the center of the room and spun slowly, fluttering her hands.

Was this a bribe? An Avon lady? A decoy? An exorcism?

The vision turned back toward him and a nervous smile tugged at her ripe lips. "I'm Lacy Emerson. My client has authorized my services—"

Kuryakin's eyebrow raised ominously. "You're a professional?" he accused. This time Napoleon had really gone too far. Admittedly, he had been testier than usual yesterday and Solo naturally offered his patented suggestion for stress relief. Which Illya succinctly declined. But to send over a woman, home delivered like a pizza!—A quick glance at the calendar proved it was not April 1st.

She blushed, caught in an exaggeration. "Well, it started as a hobby, but I really enjoy it. I took an Adult Ed class at night and I'm starting my own business. I've always had an artistic instinct for the work, I've helped friends and neighbors and they say I'm gifted," she was babbling. "Really creative and clever.. . I can give you references-" she began to paw through an ungainly tote bag.

Illya pulled her hands free. "I'm sure you're quite—talented. But I believe there's been a misunderstanding."

"Oh, don't worry about the money," she assured him quickly, hands fluttering again ". I'm carving out a special niche for my clients—there's so many of us in the field now, I've decided to concentrate on folks with taste and imagination, but modest budgets."

Kuryakin was baffled.

Lacy settled into his lumpy couch and was settled lower to the floor than she had anticipated. She struggled to free herself, limbs flailing, then simply resigned to its clutches. "Shall we get started?" she pulled out a notebook and smiled brightly.

"You're going to take notes?" Should he be flattered or suspicious?

"Just to get some ideas of your taste, what you'd like; I can offer a lot of options—"

"Ms. Emerson—"

"I've got pictures—" Lacy was trying desperately to hang on to this assignment. For herself, because this project was a challenge. And for Kuryakin, who obviously needed a woman's touch. She grabbed onto the corner of an album, tugging it from the depths of her bountiful tote. "Sometimes if you can visualize what you want—Is there a particular style you enjoy?"

"Style?" He likened this foreplay to a gentle interrogation...or an awkward job interview.

"You know—classic, country, contemporary… I can do anything you like. Oriental is popular," she suggested

"What ..ah…do you enjoy?" Ever the gentleman.

"Oh… French," she gushed dreamily. " So intricate, so tactile. But you're the customer—I want you to be satisfied." Lacy gazed around the man cave again. "I'm certain that together we can come up with something that'll pop your eyes out!"

"Indeed."

Lacy fished around the tote and one hand emerged with a small camera.

"Photographs?" He was something like aghast. "No. No, I am not at all comfortable with that."

"But please," now her eyelids fluttered. " I need them for my portfolio—Before and After shots, so I can show other clients my work."

"No. No photos." Illya was firm on that point. The agent was not camera shy; he simply did not trust Solo. Somehow, such things could make the rounds at HQS. And there was always the potential for blackmail.

"So where would you like to start?" Lacy's energy was engaging. She held out her hand toward him. It was certainly an attractive hand, one must admit. "Here, or in the bedroom?"

# # # # # # # # # #

Napoleon caught up with his partner in the east corridor. "Hey, Tovarish."

"Greetings, yourself."

"So, how did my little surprise work out?" he grinned in anticipation of thanks. "Any photos?"

"Decidedly not," he snapped. Then Illya relented. After all, Napoleon was just trying to help. "I appreciate the thoughtfulness, Napoleon, but really, I can manage to find companionship when I crave it"

Solo was puzzled. "I'm talking about the designer I sent over; It's time to make your habitat a home, pal o'mine. She's a friend of Sherry's…Sally's…anyway, I figure she needs the experience, you need inspiration…a little encouragement…"

"She—Lacy—she's an interior decorator?" Now it was the Russian who was puzzled. "Hmf." He seemed to be concentrating on something far away. "Huh." He pondered the previous evening's activities. "Well, that might explain the fabric swatches," he muttered to himself.

"And the paint in your hair." Solo flipped some loose strands across Illya's forehead. "Meadowmoss Green ?"

"Hmmm…I thought she just liked to set the mood…the crown molding was a nice touch," he mused. "But honestly, Napoleon: I swear the trapeze was her idea."

finis


End file.
